


Phantoms Forever

by graffitivampires



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Fanfiction, Ghosts, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26870362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graffitivampires/pseuds/graffitivampires
Summary: "You're kidding me, Frank," Pete laughed, struggling to keep a straight face as Frank explained his ludicrous account - that he persisted was factual, and that in reality, he wasn't just off his rocker - with a straight face, "you seriously think Kurt Cobain is haunting you? If he were to haunt someone, Frank, he'd fucking haunt Courtney Love."Four years after the tragic death of Kurt Cobain, Frank swears Kurt is haunting him in his sleazy apartment. Nobody believes him, of course, because who the fuck believes in ghosts anymore? All except for Ray Toro, and Mikey and Gerard Way. Frank's newfound friends know just as much as he does about the paranormal - absolute jack shit. However, as the four make their best attempts to prove Frank's irrational theory correct, they inadvertently inaugurate a metaphysical phenomenon that could either make or break their world forever. And to make matters worse, Frank falls in love with Gerard in the midst of all of it.
Kudos: 2





	Phantoms Forever

**Author's Note:**

> about this story!!  
> -it is set in the autumn of 1998 and leads into the winter of 1999  
> -gerard and ray are 21, mikey is 18 and frank is 18.  
> -there will be mentions of violence, paranormal activity, and descriptive, emotional scenes. if any of these are triggering for you, read at your own risk.  
> -it is frerard, and as of right now i am unsure of side/background ships but if that changes i will update tags!  
> -mikey and gerard work at walmart, frank works at staples, and ray works at a family-owned guitar store.
> 
> contact me at any of my social media:  
> twitter - @DROWN1NGL3SSONZ  
> instagram: @aobhamcg
> 
> enjoy!

Frank sighed as he found yet another piece of paper with more Nirvana lyrics on it. "I get it, Kurt," he muttered, annoyed, "you're fucking haunting me, or some stupid shit like that, but leaving Nirvana lyrics around my apartment is getting frustrating." Frank studied the paper's words, reading the lyrics, and trying to remember which song it was. 

"I wish I was like you,  
Easily amused  
Find my nest of salt,  
Everything's my fault."

Sighing again, Frank gave up on trying to remember which song it was. He mindlessly threw the frustrating scrap in the bin, going back to watching whatever crap was on TV ~ a Nirvana concert from '92. "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me. You're playing your shows now, too? Jokes on you, motherfucker, I saw you back in 1993. Eat shit," Frank scoffed, turning off his TV and standing up. He just needed to get out of his apartment, he thought, and maybe Kurt - Frank was convinced it was Kurt Cobain anyway, and because he was a stubborn idiot, nobody would change his mind - would get the message and piss off. Frank didn't mind the notes and stuff at first, but when it starts to happen for months on end, it can be a little creepy and pretty annoying. It had started as seeing April fifth, 1994 everywhere in his apartment, and soon song lyrics were appearing in every nook and cranny they could fit inside.

As Frank picked up his apartment keys, he absentmindedly threw a middle finger in the air behind him as he left. Frank smirked to himself, full of pride because he'd just told the ghost of a mega-star to go fuck themselves. That's what Frank thought, anyway. As he was walking the streets, breathing in the bitter October air, he couldn't help but notice people were staring and giggling to themselves as he walked by. Rolling his eyes, he recalled the time he made the mistake of spilling his crazy idea to Pete from the bowling alley, whom he'd known for all of two months. 

"You're kidding me, Frank," Pete laughed, struggling to keep a straight face as Frank explained his ludicrous account - that he persisted was factual, and that in reality, he wasn't just off his rocker - with a straight face, "you seriously think Kurt Cobain is haunting you? If he were to haunt someone, Frank, he'd fucking haunt Courtney Love. Everybody knows it's her fault anyway." Frank rolled his eyes in exasperation, mentally punching himself for thinking someone would believe him. "I'm telling you the truth, Pete! I keep seeing April fifth, 1994, around my house! I keep seeing Nirvana lyrics everywhere too -- you need to believe me, man, it's Kurt Cobain!"  
"Sure, Frankie, whatever you say."

Frank's fist curled up as he thought of Pete's stupid face and imagined him standing on the desk at the bowling alley with a loudspeaker, announcing to everybody that Frank Iero was a fucking lunatic. Had Frank been given a chance to punch Pete right in the nose, goddamnit, he'd take it, because now he was the village idiot - and it was Pete's fault. Frank chose to ignore his violent desires and instead turned into Walmart, deciding he was running out of cigarettes and beer (he wasn't, but Frank smoked like a motherfucker, and sometimes drank like a motherfucker as well).

When Frank had reached the front counter to ask for cigarettes, the lanky employee grinned at him and propped himself up on his arms against the counter. "I know you," he chuckled lightheartedly, "you're Ghost-Boy. The one who believes Kurt Cobain's haunting his house, huh?" Frank refrained from rolling his eyes, instead politely smiling and chuckling along with the worker.

"Yeah, that's me. You must think I'm some lunatic or something," Frank sighed, shrugging.

The stranger in front of him laughed a little. "No, not really. I think you're telling the truth. Ghosts are fucking real, y 'know. I'm Mikey, by the way." Frank raised his eyebrows, slightly taken aback by the new approach to his otherwise unconventional sounding story. "I'm Frank. You're the first one to believe me, man. Everyone else thinks I just got off the psych ward," Frank said, giggling around his words. 

"There are more people who believe you. My brother, Gerard, he's just about as superstitious as I am, maybe even more so. Gerard!" Mikey called, turning around slightly. At the sound of Mikey's voice, a feminine looking boy with greasy black hair came out from the door behind the registers; this must have been Gerard.

"Oh, Mikey, you met Ghost-Boy," Gerard said softly, contently smiling as he turned to Frank. Frank found Gerard's voice oddly soothing, but it suited him. Frank and Gerard exchanged introductions before turning back to the initial subject of conversation; Kurt Cobain is permeating Frank's apartment (or is speculated to be anyway). "That sounds fucking awesome, but also fucking annoying," Gerard snickered.

"Tell me about it."

"People have told you that? That's mean y 'know, Frank," Gerard pouted, sipping his watery coffee. He thought it was shit, but coffee was coffee, and after his shift, Gerard was fucking tired. Frank shrugged, taking a drag of his cigarette and blowing the smoke out of his nose. "I'm the village idiot, Gerard, if someone told me my story, I don't think I'd believe it myself. I mean, Kurt Cobain is a pretty big stretch in itself. Of course, people are going to be mean to me; it's just human nature. It doesn't hurt me, though," Frank chuckled darkly, smiling at Gerard. Gerard was one of those people who was just kind no matter what, and Frank appreciated that. Frank saw Gerard's face screw up slightly, and as he went to reassure him that it was okay, Mikey did it for him. Gerard shrugged, not fully believing his brother, but accepting the statement nonetheless. 

Frank, Mikey, and Gerard sat for hours, just talking about everything, not paying attention to the empty coffee cups and squashed-out cigarettes littering the pavement below them. The sky grew dim, and instead of a bright, bold blue, painting the sky were now various pinks, purples, and oranges, and only the most luminous stars begun to show. Frank looked up, zoning out the conversation momentarily, and thought about the ghost in his apartment. It could have been anyone else, and maybe, for a second, Frank thought Pete from the bowling alley could be correct -- Kurt Cobain would be haunting Courtney Love, but he wasn't; Pete from the bowling alley was still wrong. Frank was sure it was him, albeit, without concrete evidence that it was, nothing would change his mind. 

It made sense to him, though, why his apartment cost him dirt. There was a ghost in it, and "normal" people are scared of ghosts. It was only $20 a week or so, and the money he made from gigs - his band Pencey Prep wasn't doing too bad in the local scene - and his crappy job at Staples was more than enough to pay the rent. Frank often wondered if the ghost ever stood - floated, in a more traditional sense for those in purgatory - over Frank's shoulder while he was writing, analyzing the words on the paper and trying to figure out what they mean. 

Sometimes, Frank didn't even know what his words meant.

"Frank?"

He'd just put them on the paper, let his thoughts and ideas spill for a while, before inevitably deciding whatever crap was there was good enough.

"Frank."

And maybe it'd be a hit, one day - not that Frank or his bandmates cared for hits, anyway - and they'd go worldwide- Frank groaned in pain suddenly, his hand flinching to the side of his head where something had hit him. He looked down, seeing one of the coffee cups at his feet. "You there?" Mikey asked, grinning as Frank glared at him. "Yeah, asshole, I'm here. It's kind of late, and I have work tomorrow morning," Frank explained begrudgingly, reluctant to go home and find paper scattered everywhere, "I'd stay longer if I could. You two need to go home or something, anyway, you look kinda sweaty and gross."

"Thanks, Frank," Mikey chuckled, throwing another disposable cup at Frank's head and missing, "I appreciate it." Gerard giggled - he sounded kind of like a fairy, but then again, he was fairy-like from the moment Frank first saw him. "Don't be hypocritical, Frank, you don't smell that good yourself. You smell kinda like cigarettes and weed, actually," Gerard smiled, holding out his hand to help Frank stand up. Frank accepted the gesture and laughed, quietly thanking Gerard before saying goodbye to the two of them.

Frank was getting pissed off. The temperature of his apartment kept changing - one minute, it was too hot, and the other, it was too cold. And this time, he couldn't blame it on the ghost. It was the crappy, unserviced venting in his apartment, and sometimes, it'd play up for days on end, making Frank tired and grumpy. Eventually, he'd just given up on trying to sleep in his bed and went to the living area - it was the only part of the stupid place where the ventilation was kind of decent - and sacrificed not having a sore back in the morning.

Frank groaned as he threw his ugly red Staples uniform over his head; he'd fallen asleep in an uncomfortable position on his sofa - a leather one, mind you, so it clung to his skin as he sat up - and now his back was aching like hell. Unfortunately for him, too, he had to stand and scan copies for hours at his job. Before deciding to try a rational solution - Frank was anything but rational - Frank eventually concluded that the most suitable decision would be to show up high. It wasn't like he hadn't done it before - he'd done it almost every time after his fifth week because his manager didn't care. Besides, it momentarily removed the aching pain in his back and made him seem more cheerful than he was. 

Frank was barely competent by the time he'd shown up to work. He remembered he had to scan things - what, he didn't know - and help customers. The people asking him for help couldn't tell Frank was stoned - that, or they did and didn't comment on it, silently judging him for believing in ghosts and being a fucking stoner all at once. Frank's manager didn't care, greeting him at the registers as always, before he took his place at the scanners and waited for his shift to be over. 

Frank had just finished scanning something for somebody - who didn't want his help at all because "it's the lunatic who thinks Kurt Cobain is haunting him! He probably can't even work a scanner!" - when a familiar face walked into the store. Frank squinted, trying to see them through his hazy vision, before smiling and greeting them as they walked over. "Frank?" he asked, smiling. Frank grinned - wider than before - as he recognized one of his oldest friends. "Ray! Hi!" Frank giggled, dopey and slow, waving at Ray. Ray ran a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes and chuckling. "I thought you weren't a pothead anymore, Frank. Maybe it's the pot convincing you you're haunted, huh?" he joked, Frank's dopey smile growing wider as Ray spoke.

"You believe me, Ray. I think. You did say that, right? Oh, wait! Did I tell you about the people I met at Walmart? Their names are Gerard and Mikey. Gerard kind of looks like a fairy, and he speaks like one too! That's so cool! Mikey's a little scary, but I like him. He threw a cup at my head," Frank rambled on, pouting at the end as he recalled what Mikey did. As Ray went to speak, Frank's manager came out from his door behind the desk. "Iero! Get to work and stop blabbering!" he yelled, shaking his head in disapproval. 

Frank rolled his eyes, dramatically picking up the poster Ray had put down and scanned it. "Murphy's a b- a bitch," Frank complained, causing Ray to laugh again.

"Mikey and Gerard seem great, Frank. Do they believe you?" Ray asked; whenever Frank was high, Ray spoke to him like he was a little kid - he acted like one. Frank frantically nodded his head, blabbering on again about Gerard and Mikey. 

"Iero!"

"Sorry, Ray," Frank pouted. "I'll see you whenever." Frank turned around to see the queue of angry people behind him, leaving Ray to pick up his posters. 


End file.
